Day Six
by The Crane Wife
Summary: Day four, she makes the appointment. It's happening on day six at 7:45 AM. The receptionist is kind and shows no hint of judgment, which only drives Olivia crazy.


I watched that episode where Olivia tells Amanda she had an abortion, so here you go. I guess that's a trigger warning: there's mention of abortion. The times might not exactly line up with the episode, but uh, I'm a writer? Anyway! Here you go! Part 1 of 2.

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Olivia learned in 8th grade health class where babies came from. Not from her mother, who was perpetually too drunk to explain. Not from her father, whose name she didn't even know at the time. Not from a girlfriend on the playground or a family friend. No, it was Mr. Brown, a tired looking man in his early 50's, who wore suits that were always 1 size too big and wire rimmed glasses, had a beard, spoke like he'd never gotten a good night's sleep.

Here, she learned the math: man plus woman minus clothes times sex equals one bundle of joy 9 (technically 10) months later.

She's wishing she'd paid better attention.

/

Olivia is sitting on the edge of her bathtub, feeling as cliche as ever, looking at the not one, not even two, but four pregnancy tests staring back at her, balanced precariously on the tub beside her. One pink line means it's negative, the box indicates, and two pink lines means surprise! You're an idiot who had drunken, unprotected sex once with a virtual stranger and now you've got _decisions_ to make.

The first time she thought: maybe it's wrong. The second time: maybe she let it sit too long. By the fourth, there's bile building in the back of her throat. Is she nervous? Is she _happy_? What will Brian say? What will she tell her mother?

Oh god, she'll have to tell her mother.

\

She takes one week off from work.

The flu, she lies, although at this moment in her pregnancy, it feels closer to the truth. As soon as she wakes in the morning, she pitches from the bed, into the bathroom, and kneels in front of the toilet to throw up.

For the first two days, it's hard, bordering on impossible, to focus. She flips through magazines that are sprawled on her coffee table. Walks to the bodega around the corner to buy decaffeinated tea and bread. On the walk home, each time, she contemplates going back and buying just one more box of tests, just to be sure. You can never be sure, right? _No, Liv_, a voice in her head says back, _you know the equation_. She flips through channels on the TV. Tries to nap. Ends up staring at the off white ceiling above her.

On the third day, she gives up on focus and instead contemplates Brian. She still hasn't told him and she's wondering how. What he would say. Whether he'd ask her out to dinner again. If whatever stupid fight they've found themselves in would magically dissipate under the weight and joy of a baby. That doesn't sound right, these things don't work like that. Not for her, at least. She dials his number and hangs up 7 different times. He's probably at the office anyway.

Day four, she makes the appointment. It's happening on day six at 7:45 AM. The receptionist is kind and shows no hint of judgment, which only drives Olivia crazy.

TELL ME THIS IS A HORRIBLE THING TO DO, she wants to yell.

"Thank you," is what she calmly states before she hangs up. Before day four ends, she calls Brian. The clock beside her bed says 11:11 in bright green numbers. She makes a wish: please pick up the phone, but instead she gets the answering machine.

She doesn't leave a message.

/

It's day six. At 6:30, she hails a cab and gives the address of the Planned Parenthood without stating the name.

At 7, she walks in the front door after being buzzed in. The same receptionist takes her information, gives her a form to fill out, and invites her to take a seat.

FUCK YOU, she thinks.

"Thank you," she says.

As she holds the pen, she's surprised to find her hands are shaking.

\

Day five, she makes a list.

PROS: I would have a baby; I would love this baby; I would be a good mother; I would be a better mother than my own; I want a kid; Brian would be excited once he stopped being an asshole; Brian would be a good father; we could try to make a family; I could have, create something I've always craved; I think Brian could love us both;

CONS: I work a lot; I wouldn't be home enough; I don't feel prepared for a baby now; I don't know Brian well; I don't know Brian at all; I don't want a baby now; I don't want a baby now; I don't want a baby now; I don't want

On December 12, 1999, Olivia makes a decision not to have her baby.

/

The doctor, Dr. Bailey, is tall, with kinky brown hair and deep brown eyes. Her lab coat is starkly white, a contrast to her umber skin. There's a badge on her coat that says her name and is decorated in rainbow and triangle shaped stickers. She _looks_ nice, Olivia thinks, which puts her at ease.

Dr. Bailey's voice is even, matter of fact. She says, "Complications from abortion are rare, but you should call us if you're worried. This will only take about 10 minutes. We're going to give you a mild sedative so you'll be comfortable. We'll want you to stay in our recovery room for at least an hour so we can be sure you're okay before you go home. We'll have instructions for the next couple of days. And again, you can call us anytime if you're concerned about anything."

Olivia nods. Takes a breath. Fleetingly wishes she could have reached Brian before now.

"Any questions?" Olivia shakes her head no. "Great. I'll go get the sedative and we'll get started."

\

The sedative hits her harder than she anticipated. Is she dreaming? Is she awake? At times, she thinks she's on a beach, somewhere warm and tropical she's never been. The nurses tip toe in and ask how she's feeling, to which she emphatically responds, "wonderful!" before disappearing for another swim.

/

In the cab on the way home, Olivia stares out the window, clutching the discharge paperwork in a gloved hand.

What's she feeling now?

Not regret. Not upset. Not sadness.

Is this relief?

\

You should take it easy for the first few days after your abortion. No strenuous exercise for at least a week. Let your body be your guide. Symptoms of pregnancy should disappear 24 hours after your abortion. Nausea will go away after about three days. Breast swelling and tenderness can last up to two weeks. You can return to work and get back into your routine. You definitely should not tell your very Irish Catholic partner what you've been up to for the last week. You can feel relief and not guilt. You did what was best for you and that's okay. You can tell Brian when you're ready.

And so she does.


End file.
